


You Were Never Lovelier

by cosima_phdhaus



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, Mentioned Edwin Jarvis, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 09:06:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3441434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosima_phdhaus/pseuds/cosima_phdhaus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six nights of domestic Cartinelli testing out all of the bedrooms to figure out which ones they like best because Angie doesn't like sleeping alone in new places. </p>
<p>Or the one where on the seventh night, Peggy finally tells Angie that sometimes she talks too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Were Never Lovelier

## 1

Angie carefully replaced the telephone on its cradle, drowning out the last few heavily accented words of her mother before turning to meet Peggy’s amused smirk. “Six bedrooms,” she muttered under her breath, the phrase having slipped over her lips at least a dozen times during her phone call, though it still held an underlying sense of awe. “I might just sleep in a different room every night until I figure out which one is my favorite.” It was clear that her head was still spinning in a thousand different directions, and knowing Angie as well as Peggy did, she knew that the waitress was still attempting to come to grips with the idea that she’d have to pay no rent, which meant that she could cut down on her hours at the diner, which meant that she could go on more auditions -  

“Angie, I can practically hear the gears beneath those curls of yours still spinning,” Peggy teased from across the room, still carefully watching her best friend attempt to process their new living arrangement. “Get yourself settled into one of the rooms, and we’ll work it all out from there.” Uncrossing her arms, she reached for her coat, sliding her arms into the sleeves with practiced ease that Angie knew she would never possess. “Now, I need to run out for a moment because of a rather time sensitive errand, but I imagine your excitement has you ravenous. Mr. Jarvis, as I hear it, has made sure the kitchen is fully stocked, but I don’t much feel like cooking, so I’ll bring back dinner from that pizza place you love so much in Brooklyn.” Her casual monologue kept Angie’s attention away from the slight tremor in Peggy’s fingers as she mentally prepared herself for an overdue trip to bring Steve home.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, English. You’ve done enough, really – “

“I insist,” she countered immediately, grabbing her clutch and turning toward the front door to escape any possible questions about her errand, feeling far too exhausted to concoct a believable lie. “I’ll be back within the hour.”  

“Double pepperoni!’ Angie shouted from the living room, the look of unmitigated awe crossing over her features when her voice echoed back at her, filling the vast, rather unoccupied space, “and don’t forget the Italian sausage!”

Peggy shook her head, laughing quietly to herself as she stepped through the doorway, making sure to secure each lock behind her before walking away. She would never forgive herself if Dottie inflicted the same pain upon Angie that had been exacted on Colleen; she’d spent far too long muddling through the ocean of grief Steve’s passing had drowned her in, and she staunchly refused to allow another wave to engulf her when she’d only just begun treading water again. The desire to protect her roommate only grew when Angie had grabbed her hand at the end of the night, pleading with her in a small voice to try out each bedroom with her. “I don’t like sleeping alone in new places, and this house is so big it gives me the heebie-jeebies.” 

## 2 

The second night found both women sprawled out on one of the many couches throughout their new home, a pile of pastries from the diner between them and a nearly empty bottle of Schnapps perched precariously on the edge of the coffee table. Peggy had spent the better part of three hours regaling stories about both Thompson and Sousa and yet skillfully avoiding discussing how she came to work for the SSR, desperately attempting to divert Angie’s attention – and their conversation - back to her upcoming auditions as often as physically possible. She wasn’t ready to discuss Steve - not just yet.

By the end of the night, Peggy could now honestly say she knew more about musical theater than she’d ever imagined knowing, but to her relative chagrin, she found that no matter what subject was bubbling over Angie’s lips, her attention was captured by the light sparkling in Angie’s eyes. She’d received a full of synopsis of the entire plot of  _Annie, Get Your Gun_ , including several reenactments of pivotal scenes that “couldn’t have their magic captured by words, English,” and a lengthy analysis of the impossible decision Kay Hudson faced when having to choose between Shep Dooley and Johnny Comstock in _Call Me Mister_. It was then, staring into Russian pine forests mingling with the Hudson River, surrounded by darkened lashes, that Peggy realized she would happily listen to Angie read the plethora of recipes Mr. Jarvis had kindly left stacked on the kitchen counter. So when Angie’s eyes finally fluttered shut, at just past two in the morning, Peggy, for once, didn’t ignore the tugging in her chest, instead embracing it as she did the same to the sleeping young woman; those few solitary moments on the Brooklyn Bridge had done more good than she’d anticipated. She lifted Angie’s limp body with ease, one arm snaked around thin shoulders and the other beneath strong legs, no doubt from long shifts at the diner and the weekly dance class she’d so often been invited to, and nearly coerced into joining.  _You’re wasting those legs of yours English, I swear._

She welcomed the sudden pounding in her rib cage, as if her heart had chosen this very moment to learn how to tap dance – the irony wasn’t lost on her in the slightest. She easily slipped Angie beneath the clean sheets, a promise from Howard that she refused to believe until Jarvis had reassured her that he’d replaced all of the linens, refusing to allow herself much more than one last, second-long glance at the waitress’ relaxed features, devoid entirely of the stress of her day.  

It was when she was nearly through the threshold that she heard her name mumbled from the mountain of pillows Angie was now sprawled across. “Pegs, I know I compliment your legs a lot, but there’s something to be said for those arms of yours too.”  

Peggy leaned against the doorframe, lips quirked at an angle as she observed her nearly unconscious roommate. “I can do 107 one-armed pushups, you know.”  

“If I weren’t so tired, I’d make you prove it, but I’ll take your word on that for now.” Angie patted the mattress next to her tiredly, her words muffled by the pillows beneath her. “Now get over here, English. The sheets on your side of the bed aren’t going to rumple themselves.”  

_English_. Perhaps in another place, in another time, or from another person, the nickname would seem nearly derogatory, or at the very least, minimalizing, but hearing it in Angie’s infinitely sweet voice had Peggy ducking her head to hide the blush blooming over her cheeks, even if it couldn’t be seen. “Sweet dreams, Angie,” she whispered as she carefully crawled beneath the comforter, maintaining as much distance as she could manage from the now completely unconscious form beside her. 

## 3 

_Meet me at the diner before you go into work. I’ll have one of your favorite scones and a hot cup of coffee waiting for you. xo Angie_

Peggy couldn’t fight the grin that had blossomed against her features, not as she showered, or begrudgingly slipped into her heels, or as she moved through the early morning crowds, even as she was jostled repeatedly by men who felt they owned the sidewalk. Her smile only grew when her gaze fell on Angie good-naturedly arguing with one of the cooks through the order window, though she consciously narrowed it to a tight-lipped smirk when her roommate turned around, having been alerted to her presence by the very same coworker.  

“If my repayment is hot coffee and scones, I ought to carry you to bed more often,” Peggy teased, lighting up as she saw the softest hints of rose tinge Angie’s cheekbones, adding to the glow she naturally exuded more often than not.  

“Oh, just take your scone and my gratitude English – no need to develop a complex,” she quipped back, pouring the black liquid into the largest cup the diner had, adding a splash of cream and two packets of sugar. “There you go, just how you like it. Now get yourself to work before the new fathead in charge fires you. Mrs. Fry would be disappointed if she ever found out you were both unemployed  _and_ unmarried.”

Stirring her coffee and firmly attaching the lid Angie held out to her, she smirked, remembering well the number of times she’d broken the Griffith Hotel rules – nearly every one of them. “Well, we can’t have that, now can we?” She stood, straightening her blazer and tucking her clutch beneath her arm before heading toward the door. “Good luck with your audition this afternoon,” she called back, and the slightly shocked look that crossed Angie’s features confirmed that she’d thought Peggy had forgotten. “You’ll be amazing.” 

While her days with the SSR were more than just lunch orders and filing, the monotony of research and theorizing where Dottie Underwood had possibly gotten off to could not keep Peggy’s mind from fluttering back to an image of Angie on stage, giving her all during her audition. The clock seemed to move in slow motion, and with Agent Thompson’s ego swollen even further, five o’clock could not possibly have come quickly enough. Waving off Sousa for a second time, with only the smallest pang of guilt in her stomach, she hailed a taxi, mentally willing the car to speed up, reducing the time she would have to wait to hear about Angie’s audition.  

Unlocking the doorknob and each of the deadbolts, she was woefully unprepared to hear body wracking sobs echoing through the sparsely decorated space and immediately moved to the third bedroom, finding Angie curled in a ball on the mattress, half dressed and far beyond distraught. Choosing to focus on the tears rather than the upper half of the woman’s body, covered by nothing more than a brassiere, Peggy slipped out of her heels, removed her blazer and cautiously maneuvered herself onto the bed. “Do you want to talk about it?”  

“Pegs,” Angie whispered, her voice hoarse with exhaustion, “it was awful.” She sniffled twice and cleared her throat before continuing, tears still streaming down her cheeks. “They cut me off halfway through my song and only listened to the first five minutes of the dialogue they gave us for the cold reading.”  

Peggy reached around the young woman’s shaking body, pulling on her waist until golden brown locks covered her lap and Angie’s head was nestled against her thighs. She cooed encouraging words into her ear, using the soft tone her mother often had when she was upset. Peggy’s nails occasionally grazed Angie’s scalp as she ran her fingers through the loose curls, whispering reassurances; she could feel the tension receding from Angie’s limbs and when her tears had dried, her body now limp against strong legs, Peggy rubbed soothing circles into her back while propositioning the only thing she could think of that might make her roommate feel better.  

“I’ll go and run you a bath, and set a kettle for a spot of tea. How does that sound, love?” The term of endearment slipped directly past her mouth filter, but the smallest hint of a smile tugged at Angie’s tear-stained cheeks, and that made the embarrassment that had quickly built in Peggy’s chest disappear almost instantaneously.  

“That sounds great actually. I knew I kept you around for a reason English.” Angie’s voice was returning to its natural tone, one far more cheerful than the despondency that had held Peggy’s chest in a vice grip when she’d first arrived home.  

“And here I thought that reason was my incredible wit and good looks,” Peggy laughed, running her fingers once more through Angie’s hair before shuffling out from beneath the other woman’s head, moving toward the closest of the bathrooms.  

“Those are pretty good reasons too.” She barely heard the words through the rasp of Angie’s voice and the distance between them, but the sentence wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed, the comfortable ache beneath her rib cage a reminder of that moment until she fell asleep, in the third bedroom, hours later, with Angie’s head tucked into the crook of her neck. 

## 4 

After a long day of being both literally and figuratively trampled by the patriarchy, Peggy sank into the couch cushions of their first living room, which Angie had decided she preferred because of the view, massaging her temples to stave off the migraine that had been tugging at the edges of her consciousness for most of the day. Calling out for Angie, she received no response and groaned in frustration; she was in no shape to attempt to figure out dinner for herself, and had half a mind to curl up in bed and sleep until the next Monday morning.  

As she attempted, and failed miserably, to muster up the energy to move from the couch to the fourth bedroom, she heard a crash and a string of Italian swears that kept her SSR training from kicking in, because no one but Angie could sound quite so delicate while likely cursing Howard for his incompetence in purchasing homes with a kitchen floor plan that made sense. Peggy had learned early on not to question any of Angie’s declarations about cooking, kitchens, or food in general, given that the fiery Italian woman held strong opinions on all three. She’d learned even more quickly not to bother searching for the seemingly unending stash of chocolate bars Angie possessed. Moments later, the woman in question moved through the doors with a large glass of bourbon and a steaming bowl of spaghetti that left Peggy no room for doubt as to whether asking Angie to move in with her was an irrational decision. She reappeared moments later, with a glass of red wine and a bowl of her own, shrugging when asked what the special occasion was.  

“You listened to me blubber for nearly an hour yesterday, so I figured cooking dinner was the least I could do, seeing as you’re relatively useless in a kitchen.” A small smile flickered over both women’s faces when Peggy didn’t fight the accusation. “Then, you came in looking like you’d had the day from hell, which wouldn’t surprise me, because dealing with those coworkers of yours would drive me crazy something awful, so I found the stash of bourbon in the liquor cabinet.” Angie chuckled as looked up, seeing flecks of spaghetti sauce dashed across a porcelain cheek and wiping it off with her thumb. “You know, for someone who’s British, you’re hopeless when it comes to table manners, English.” 

Peggy simply shrugged, slurping up another forkful from her bowl, her blush deepening each time Angie’s fingers moved to wipe away the excess sauce that had missed her mouth. 

Crawling into bed that night, with a routine that was quickly becoming comfortable, Peggy curled up, the weariness of the day quickly settling into her limbs. She felt Angie tap her shoulder twice and lifting heavy eyelids, saw the woman’s left arm extended, leaving space for Peggy to rest against her chest. She scooted forward, too tired to consider the repercussions, her cheek settling just above where Angie’s heartbeat could be felt, sure, strong, and steady, just like the arm that came to wrap around her waist, holding her more closely. 

## 5 

Opening the door to the townhouse, Peggy was assaulted by the familiar voices of the Captain America radio show, and felt her shoulders deflate. Angie clearly wasn’t expecting her home, given that she’d been working longer hours at the office to make up for the lack of leads in the Underwood case.  Slumping into the living room, her typical saunter now reduced to shuffling heels and a slightly grimaced expression, Angie caught sight of her and nearly sprinted across the room, sliding along the wooden floorboards in her stockings and cutting the radio off. “I’m sorry Pegs; I didn’t know you would be home so early.”  

"Don’t worry about it Angie. I’ll have to get used to hearing his name eventually." One of Angie’s eyebrows arched in confusion, the silent question hanging over them both after Peggy so casually referred to Captain America. It still didn’t feel right to discuss him with anyone, but Peggy imagined that it never really would. "Steve and I were - " she struggled to choose a word that could encompass their relationship, or if she were being honest with herself, their lack thereof, finally settling on, "close, during the war."

"Oh, English." Angie’s voice was dripping with sincere compassion, and that was all it took for the stories to tumble over Peggy’s lips, streaming steadily like the East River that now contained the last bit of him she’d possessed, save for her memories.  

"The last thing I said to him was to be sure not to be late. We were meant to go dancing." She shook her head, a few stray pins falling from her curls as a sad smile etched itself into her cheeks. "He was always late, it seemed. I worried after him constantly, and then, all of a sudden, he wasn’t there to worry over anymore."  

Angie was quiet for several long moments, allowing Peggy to reel in the emotions pouring over every inch of her frame. She reached forward, grabbing one of the brunette’s hands and squeezing lightly. “Is that why you’d be so upset if I picked up a night shift at the diner without telling you?” Peggy shrugged, but eventually nodded, a small, self-deprecating smirk appearing on her bright red lips. “And why you never wanted to come with me to my dance classes?” She nodded a second time, the smirk fading. “Well then,” Angie stood up, tugging on Peggy’s hand to pull her into a standing position as well, “I’m taking you dancing.”  

"Angie, I’m not sure -"

"You talk too much sometimes, English. Better me than some guy at a bar who calls you dollface and can’t keep his hands to himself." Peggy sighed, because Angie certainly had a point. She knew that there were things she needed to let go of, to move past, so that she could start living without Steve’s memory haunting her, but she certainly hadn’t considered the idea that it would consist of slow dancing in the living room of one of Howard Stark’s properties with a woman she met at a diner. "Now give me just a minute to get this right." She scurried over to the record player, nearly slipping a second time, flipping through the album covers as she tore off her stockings. She set one onto the turntable, adjusting the volume slightly and carefully placing needle down and moving back across the room with a confidence Peggy rarely saw in her.    
  
 _Tell me that it’s true,  
Tell me you agree,_

Peggy heard the opening strains and vaguely recognized the song, but had never paid it much mind until she felt a warm hand take hold of her own and another settle against her lower back.  

_I was meant for you,  
You were meant for me._

Angie was an unsurprisingly good dancer, though her ability to lead, was undeniably impressive. The further the record played on, the closer to the pair became, until there was barely a hair’s breadth between them.  

_Dearly beloved, how clearly I see,_  
 _Somewhere in Heaven you were fashioned for me,  
_ _Angel eyes knew you,  
_ _Angel voices led me to you_

Peggy pulled Angie just that little bit closer and took the moment of surprise she’d exacted to begin to lead, gently guiding Angie around the room without a spark of hesitation on the waitress’ part. “I’m quite a bit taller in heels,” she whispered, her lips nearly brushing against the other woman’s ear. “It only felt proper that I lead.”  

_Nothing could save me,  
Fate gave me a sign  
I know that I’ll be yours come shower or shine  
So I say merely,  
Dearly beloved be mine.  _

Both women could hear the needle lift from the record, only the record’s rotations audible in the stagnant air between them. At some point toward the end of the song, Angie had rested her cheek against the lapels of Peggy’s blazer, and it was from there that she murmured out the first words to break their comfortable silence, as they continued swaying. “You know English, I knew you had great legs. What I didn’t know was how well you could use them.” A blush tickled over Peggy’s cheeks and Angie felt, rather than heard, the laugh bubbling in her chest.  

"You’re not too bad a partner either."  

They fell asleep that night, in the fifth bedroom, not curled together for comfort, but just close enough that if either shifted, some part of their bodies would brush against one another. The next morning, when Peggy woke up, well before dawn, her right arm was numb. As her gaze traveled down from her bicep, she found Angie clinging to her hand tightly, with their intertwined fingers pulled to the center of her chest.  

## 6 

Peggy was curled up in one of the armchairs, her legs folded neatly beneath her, reading, when Angie flew in through the front door, slamming it shut with nothing short of gusto. “Lock it,” Peggy automatically called, knowing her roommate’s propensity for leaving all three deadbolts open.  

"Yes, Lieutenant" Angie called back, saluting before shedding her coat and dropping her purse to the floor. "We’re celebrating tonight. We’re going out, and we’re celebrating."

Peggy dropped her book into her lap and sighed, not at all looking forward to the idea of a night in a bar, surrounded by brazen men, possessed by liquid courage, who seemed to believe ‘no,’ meant ‘try a bit harder darling.’ She opened her mouth to protest, but as was often the case, Angie interrupted her before she managed to get a word in edgewise.  

"I got a call back from that awful audition a few days ago, and we are celebrating," she repeated, barely able to contain a squeal of excitement. Peggy rose to her feet, her book now forgotten on the floor as she gathered Angie in her arms, congratulating her as she squeezed the smaller woman tightly.

'Celebrating' was not at all what Peggy was expecting, but to be completely fair, she shouldn't have expected anything different from frequenting a hole in the wall bar in Brooklyn. After two drinks, Angie had managed to beat four men at several games of poker, which led her to betting one of them that Peggy could beat him at arm wrestling, which led to a bar brawl once the man Peggy beat threatened her - a bar brawl that Angie seemed intent on fighting in. Peggy had to pull away her best friend, though she was still thrashing in her grip, hurtling Italian swears and insults left and right.  

"Angie, I need you to calm down. I’m just fine," she cooed, running her hands down Angie’s shaking arms in an attempt to calm her.  

"He was going to try and hurt you English. I can’t just calm down."  

"Angie, you seem to forget that I’m a trained SSR agent. I could have easily taken him, and at least five others. I can protect myself, I assure you."  

"Can you blame me for wanting to protect you too? I can’t lose you, Pegs. You’re the only person I have in this city, and I can’t lose you." Angie’s lower lip quivered and she dropped her chin to her chest to hide the onslaught of tears that were brimming against her lashes. Peggy pulled her in, pressing their bodies together as closely as she could manage, not caring about the hoots and hollers from the men in the bar as she pressed a kiss to the top of Angie’s head.  

"You aren’t going to lose me," she whispered, the words weaving themselves in and out of Angie’s curls, finally settling into her nerves and muscles and bones, bringing the violent vibrations in her body to a stand still. "Now let’s go home, celebrate on our own, and see if that last bed is your favorite, hm?"

For the rest of the evening, it seemed that Angie made it her mission to be pressed against Peggy in some form or fashion, as if she needed a tangible reminder that she was there, so it didn’t come as a surprise when they both settled beneath the sheets in the sixth bedroom and Angie grabbed Peggy’s hand, pulling it until it landed across her waist. The positioning of her arm made it horribly uncomfortable to retain the space between them on the mattress, so Peggy closed the distance, pressing the full length of her body against the back of Angie’s.  

"Night, English," she murmured, her voice heavily laden with sleep.  

"Sweet dreams."  

## 7 

"I think I like the room with the red walls, and the curtains that let in just that little bit of sun in the morning," Peggy mused, perusing the newspaper for any minute lead on the Underwood case. She’d underestimated Dottie before, and after making that mistake, she’d vowed not to do it for a third time.  

"Which one is that?" Angie questioned, stirring the bubbling sauce on the stove absentmindedly.  

"The fourth, I believe," she automatically replied, settling her elbow against the counter and pressing her cheek against her palm. "Yes, definitely the fourth." All that was heard from the opposite site of the kitchen island was a quiet oh. "Is that the one you had wanted, Angie? Because I can pick another. It really isn’t an issue. It’s simply a bedroom, and a free one at that."

Angie’s soft sigh had Peggy off of her feet in an instant, crossing the kitchen to meet her roommate head on. “It’s fine, really. I mean, I can just as easily take one of the other rooms too, because you chose it first, and it would be unfair of me to ask you to give it up because you’re the reason we even have this place, you know?” A smirk tickled at Peggy’s lips, but she allowed Angie to continue, if only for a moment or two more, her hands flying through the air as she explained her reasoning. “I mean, anything is better than the Griffith, honestly, plus the fifth room was a really close second, so I could just - “

Brightly colored lips pressed against her own, effectively silencing the soliloquy that had been Angie’s rationalization. Peggy waited for the other woman to pull away, to press her hands against Peggy’s shoulders as she herself had done with Dottie, but rather than hesitation, she felt the warmth of Angie’s body move closer, aligning it with her own. They pulled apart after a few long moments, and a genuine smile overtook her, a smile that Peggy had long ago realized was saved only for the waitress standing in front of her, a hopeful look sparkling in her bright eyes.  

"You talk too much, love. I had to shut you up."  

Angie grinned, remembering one of their first honest interactions, when she said nearly the same thing, though it sounded so much better rolling off of Peggy’s lips. “I’ll talk more often then, if that’s how you’re planning on keeping me quiet.” Her laughter was soft when Peggy rolled her eyes, as she was apt to do, and Angie managed to catch the other woman off guard, a feat in and of itself, when she tilted up on her toes and brought their mouths together once more. “Heck, I’ll talk forever if you keep kissing me like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> The song they dance to is Dearly Beloved by Rita Hayworth.  
> If you have any fic prompts for me, you can send them to cosima-phdhaus on tumblr. :)


End file.
